


Talkative

by thedevilchicken



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Ballet, Broken Bones, Developing Relationship, First Meetings, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:13:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29278275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: In the summer of 1995, John broke his leg.
Relationships: Marcus/John Wick
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	Talkative

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asuralucier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/gifts).



When Helen died, he called Marcus.

\---

In the summer of 1995, John broke his leg. 

It wasn't a bad break, at least not as far as broken legs went: no pins, no months of surgeries, just a cast on it and a pair of shitty crutches to walk with, prescription painkillers for if it got too bad, and the itching. So much itching, and he couldn't scratch. He could live with the inaction, sitting about cleaning guns for other guys who got to fire them and listening to the music drifting in from the theater. He could live with the pain, because he'd been brought up with that. But the itching? It drove him nuts. 

It was six days after the cast had gone on when he asked if there was something he could do to keep his mind off it. That was when the Director sent him to Marcus. 

"Y'know, I broke my leg once," Marcus told him on that first day, maybe an hour or so after they'd met. 

They were lying side by side, face down on a rooftop in the rain like that was an everyday occurrence. John had a thick sheet of clear plastic wrapped around his cast to keep it dry and there was a leak in the hood of his borrowed raincoat; he felt a trickle of water making its way down his neck, slowly, inescapable as the fucking itching, as Marcus talked. Somehow, though, Marcus knew: he reached one wet hand into his hood, around the back of John's neck underneath his hair, and left a cloth there from his rifle case to soak it up. 

"Yeah?" John replied as he tried not to shiver, not totally sure if it was from the rain or Marcus' wet fingertips against his wet skin. And that was all the encouragement it took. Marcus didn't stop talking all afternoon, as they watched people work behind the plate glass windows of the office building across the street. Honestly, John didn't mind how much he talked: it meant he didn't have to talk too much in return. 

"Hey, I didn't ask your name," Marcus said, hours later, while they made their slow-ass way back to the car. They had their hoods pulled up, and the rain was still so bad that John could hear it drumming on the fabric, and fuck if Marcus hadn't replaced that cloth at the back of his neck every hour or so, callused fingers against the nape of his neck. He guessed at least it had been distracting, even if the training seemed slow as hell to him.

"No, you didn't," John replied. And when he glanced sidelong at Marcus, Marcus rolled his eyes theatrically. 

"So what's your name?" he asked.

"Jardani. Jardani Jovonovich." 

Marcus made a face. "Yeah, no," he said, and then he narrowed his eyes at him as they walked, both rifle cases in his hands so John could balance on his crutches. He studied him in glances once they reached the car and he popped the trunk, as he loaded the cases and sheltered under the open hatch. Then he drummed his fingertips against his lips and told him, "You look like a John to me." 

"My name's not John."

Marcus raised his eyebrows. He tilted his head. He clapped him on one damp shoulder with one damp hand. 

"You think I was always a Marcus?" he said, then he closed the trunk and they got into the car and they went back to Marcus' place, where it turned out John would be staying till sniper training was finished. And that was that: he called him John from that point on, and John found he didn't mind. 

They went to a different place every day for a month. Sometimes it was a field in the middle of nowhere, shooting cans from half a mile away at the far side of a scope. Sometimes it was a rooftop three streets away from an old abandoned warehouse and they'd shoot out targets until John almost couldn't miss. All the time, Marcus was talking. All the time back at his place, he was talking, over dinner and while they cleaned the rifles, while they set out their ammunition for the next day's practice. 

He went with him on a couple of jobs, sat back and watched him work - he even talked while he was working. He smiled, and he glanced at him, he put his casually handsy hands on him, and in all the time he talked, John barely felt that goddamn itch at all. He guessed he started to feel another: in his borrowed bed at night, surrounded by boxes though how anyone could own so much shit he didn't know, he couldn't get Marcus' voice out of his head. He couldn't get the warmth of Marcus' hands over his shirt out of his head. And when he wrapped one hand around his cock and stroked himself, Marcus was asleep at the other side of the bedroom wall. That might've been the only time he was quiet.

"Do you ever stop talking?" John asked, at the end of a day, near the end, as they headed back out to the car. 

Marcus shrugged. He smiled. "When I'm alone?" he said. "Sure. But otherwise...no, not really. I'm a sociable assassin." He nudged him with his elbow. He raised his brows. "Why? You wanna make a complaint about that?"

John looked at him sidelong, almost from underneath his hair. "No, I don't," he replied, and Marcus' smile widened. John guessed he'd understood the implication. John guessed he also didn't mind. 

When the cast came off, sniper training stopped. John stopped by Marcus' place to grab his stuff and on his way out, Marcus stopped him. He slid his hand over John's forearm while he was on his way out of the door and made him pause there in the apartment doorway, half inside and half out. John didn't try to shrug him off. 

"So, I never asked how you did it," Marcus said, and he glanced down at John's newly cast-free leg. 

"Ballet," John replied. 

"Ballet?"

"Yeah." 

Maybe he expected some macho bullshit teasing about how ballet was for girls, except he guessed by then he knew Marcus well enough to _not_ expect that. Maybe he expected a story about how Marcus had broken his leg that time, falling out of a second floor window into a swimming pool, because that shit never worked quite like it did in the movies. And maybe he'd've told him about the rehearsal, one day in the theater when one of the new guys shot a hole in the scenery and when the girl he was with had lost her balance, she'd knocked him straight off the side of the goddamn stage. Maybe he'd've put more words together in a sentence than he had since they'd met. 

But Marcus didn't challenge him. He just squeezed John's arm, smiled at him and said, "Y'know, I bet you look good in tights."

John snorted. "Sure," he said. "Come by sometime and find out." Then he left, and Marcus let him go. He hadn't expected anything else, but maybe he was disappointed anyway.

It was four months later when the door to the theater auditorium swung open and in walked Marcus, in a crisp suit like he'd been someplace important or maybe he'd dressed for the occasion. John was on the stage in his practice gear and when Marcus walked by the Director, she just nodded vaguely and went back to her work - she was so unsurprised by him being there that John figured he must've called ahead. 

Marcus sat himself down in maybe the sixth row and he looked up at him, and he watched from there. John was shirtless, in a pair of tights, and for a second he thought maybe he'd do something showy, impress him with what he could do, but in the end he figured Marcus was already watching - every time he glanced down, Marcus' eyes were on him, not the other girls and guys. And once the Director was satisfied, once she'd waved them all offstage for the day, once he was backstage in the dressing room, he wasn't totally surprised to see Marcus lingering there in the corridor outside. He wasn't totally surprised that when he was the last one there, once all the others were gone, Marcus was still waiting. He wasn't surprised that he invited himself in. 

"You're here to see me?" John asked. 

"Sure," Marcus replied, as he wandered slowly around the room. "I mean, I do go to the ballet for pleasure but it doesn't usually involve amateurs who also happen to be highly trained killers."

"You don't think my dancing looks professional?"

"Maybe if you spent half as much time on your jetée as your judo, John."

"It's jiu-jitsu." Marcus raised his eyebrows pointedly. "But you knew that." Marcus shrugged. And John leaned back against the dressing table. The light bulbs around the mirror were still turned on and he could feel the warmth on his back from a couple of feet away as he watched Marcus finally come to a stop.

"So, do I?" John asked.

"Do you what?" Marcus replied.

John's mouth twisted. "Do I look good in tights?" 

Marcus laughed. He clapped one hand down on one of John's bare shoulders and rubbed there, over one of his tattoos. And once his gaze had run down over him, over John's bare chest and his black tights that clung to every single curve of him just like a second skin, once he'd brought his gaze back up to meet John's eye again, he swallowed. Maybe it was just the lights, but his face looked a little pink.

"Yeah, John," Marcus said. "You look good in tights." Then he slipped his hands to John's bare waist. His fingers toyed with the waist of his tights. He tucked his fingertips down underneath. John absolutely didn't stop him.

When Marcus peeled John's tights down, over his hips to just above his knees, he was telling him about a guy he'd lived with in college who'd been a dancer, how he'd lounged around their dorm room in nothing but his dance belt and wow, that shit had been distracting. When he ran his fingers over the front of John's, when his fingertips traced the outline of his awkwardly stiffening cock underneath, when he pressed a little with his thumb at the head, he was talking about the relative merits of dance belts versus jockstraps and cups like it was the most natural thing in the goddamn world. When he tugged down on the thick waistband, pulled it down and freed John's cock completely, when he wrapped one hand around it, he was _still_ talking. 

The only time he didn't was when he went down on his knees and blew him then and there. 

\---

After seven weeks with Marcus, somehow the theater seemed quiet even with all the people there. Over the years, wherever he went, sometimes it seemed quiet. That was he picked up the phone. 

"John," Marcus said, each time. And he didn't say _it's late_ , or _is there something I can do for you?_ Somehow, he always knew.

"Marcus," John replied. He didn't have to say another word - he just wrapped one hand around his cock, closed his eyes and stroked. He listened to him talk.

Then, when Helen died, he called Marcus.

Marcus did the talking for him.


End file.
